


Last Hurrah

by tilda



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 22:25:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2749388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilda/pseuds/tilda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the final night-time show, and Gels has left something in the studio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Hurrah

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emmlan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmlan/gifts).



> Prompt was for clique POV of one of big three bits of Nick/Harry canon and to include the line 'Oh great, now I have to bleach my brain.' I'm sorry I didn't make it to 3k - it was a pinch hit - but hope you like it anyway!

‘Oh for god’s sakes Gels, you don’t need a fucking shawl. It’s August. Just leave it.’

‘I’ll be five minutes, Hens. Promise. Just go with the others if you’re going to be all pass-agg about it.’

The rest of them were drifting and tottering down the road, some walking to the Groucho and some lazy arses finding a cab.

‘I’ll wait,’ Henry sighed.

‘Wow. Not a martyr at all.’

‘Just get a fucking move on!'

‘All right!’

Gillian scampered back to the lift and tried to remember which floor Grim’s studio was on. Five, she thought, pressing the button. Yeah, it was August and she didn't need it, but mainly, it was because the damn thing had cost two-hundred and fifty quid and she wasn’t on Henry’s income. Or Grim’s come to that. It was annoying – she did hate to miss out on even five minutes of a party – but two-hundred and fifty quid was two-hundred and fifty quid. 

The doors pinged open onto what she _thought_ was the right corridor. Was it familiar? There were pictures of Amy Winehouse and Kylie on the walls, so it couldn’t be Radio 4. There was no-one about as she made her way down the half-lit corridor, even though someone must be broadcasting from somewhere. Radio 1 was an all-night operation now, not like when she was a kid and it was _God Save the Queen_ after Peelie had played his last record (probably at the wrong speed). Or maybe not _God Save the Queen?_ Maybe that was when her parents had Radio 4 on? She couldn’t remember.

She was pretty sure it was the studio at the end. There was no light coming from there and it only occurred to her now to wonder if it might be locked, or if she might need one of those passes to get in. Fuck. She’d have to suffer the temperature fluctuations and hope the shawl was still there when Nick came into work tomorrow. 

Except of course he wouldn’t be in for work tomorrow, because that was _the last show_. That was the whole point of them all being there in the first place. Double fuck. She had to hope the studio was open then. The door was on the far side of the studio window and she looked in as she was passing, because that’s what you did when you passed a window, wasn’t it? Looked in. It was human instinct. 

By the time she reached the door her heart was pounding and she didn’t even try opening it, but leaned back against it before sliding down to the floor.

She’d been absolutely positive Nick and Harry had left with everyone else. She’d been expecting them to be already at the Groucho when she arrived. But Nick and Harry were very evidently _not_ at the Groucho Club, and very obviously, very much still in the darkened Radio 1 studios.

‘Oh bloody hell,’ she murmured as she tried to compose herself. The shawl was now the least of her worries. There had been enough light from the desk to see the moving bodies, to see the flashes of bare flesh and to know instantly what was going on. Her heart was beating and she was breathing like she’d just sprinted down that corridor and her brain was screaming ‘oh my god oh my god’ over and over again. She suddenly felt very much like her 74 year-old Granny, not an urbane woman of the world. She wasn’t naïve, she’d done her own fair share of shagging in inappropriate places, for god’s sakes. Jesus, what was the matter with her?

And it wasn’t as if she didn’t have any idea Nick did this kind of thing. It wasn’t new information. She’d heard the stories, mostly from Nick himself. He’d always been reckless, loved the thrill of not just risky, semi-public sex, but sex with popstars who could crash spectacularly if discovered, especially the squeaky clean, closeted ones. 

It was weird. He’d grown up wanting to work for Radio 1, but he still got a kick out doing the filth right under the nose of his beloved, dignified old Auntie. Right in her house. 

So yes, Gillian knew, but it was different being shown the reality of it. And it wasn’t like anything she’d have imagined either. Not that she imagined her best friend having sex on a regular basis, but when she did it was usually a lot more giggly and carefree.

Nick’s expression (looking _reverent_ for fuck’s sake), Harry’s head thrown back, the whole thing was more intense and serious than she’d have ever credited them with. But there it was, burned into her retinas: Harry lying back against the desk, his arms and legs around Nick’s body as Nick (Gillian could only assume, Jesus, and it was more like catching her parents having sex than she really wanted it to be) pushed inside him, rocking them in a regular rhythm. She assumed they were making a fair amount of noise as well, given their open mouths, but she was at least saved that by sturdy BBC soundproofing. 

She rested her head against her knees as she prepared to crawl back under the window to get the hell out of there. 

Most of them knew there was probably something going on with Harry, which was unusual in itself. These things didn’t usually turn regular. They were one-offs, kept to the confines of Radio 1, for safety’s sake if nothing else. But Nick kept Harry around. He came out with them to the pub, he was often at Nick’s the morning after, and they went on giggly shopping trips together. He wasn’t just a popstar Grim shagged at work, he was bleeding out into the other bits of Nick’s life as well. But was still, apparently, also a popstar Nick shagged at work. 

Fuck. Fuck, Nick. She hoped he knew what he was doing. Harry was a sweet kid, but in the last six months he’d become stupid-famous and Nick was about to become stupid-famous himself, and he wouldn’t come out of it alive if the press got hold of it. He’d be painted instantly as some awful sexual predator. The _Mail_ would be especially snide. They knew outright homophobia wasn’t on, but would probably get away with all sorts nasty innuendo using the most awful pictures of Nick they could find. She felt sick and protective and nothing had even happened yet. Oh god, Grim.

She took a deep breath. It was none of her business. He was an adult, and furthermore she had to get to the ground floor before they did or there were going to be some odd looks and a lot of embarrassment. She got to her knees and started crawling across the floor, under the level of the window so she wouldn’t be seen. She was glad she’d worn jeans and not some floaty skirt. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think about what was going on inside the studio. What a weird evening this had turned out to be, and it wasn’t even over yet. 

~

They were in the lift, spot-checking each other in the mirror for signs of obvious shagging - Harry’s hair was even more of a spectacular mess than usual, Nick had a smudge of dust on his cheek (they’d ended up on the floor, god) - when Nick’s phone buzzed against his hip. He dug it out and looked at the message.

‘Have they noticed we’re not there?’

‘Nah, it’s just Gels. She left her scarf in the studio or summat. I’ll get it for her when I’m in next week.’

The grooming descended into more snogging against the wall of the lift. They sprang apart when the doors opened (it was only security, but Nick knew you couldn’t be too careful). It was only in the cab over to the Groucho when he realised there was something weird about the wording of Gels’ message. ‘Could you bring it down to the Groucho.’ Not ‘pick it up when you’re next in’ or ‘have a look for it tomorrow’ but ‘bring it now’. She knew he was still there. She knew _they_ were still there. 

It was the biggest risk they’d ever taken. They'd always at least done it in the toilets before, or the cleaner's cupboard. Lockable rooms with no windows. It was how they started. 

There had been a three song break and nine minutes before the next link, and Nick had said airily to Clare that he was going to ‘show Harry something’. She’d blinked slowly at him, an ‘i-know-exactly-what-you’re-going-to-show-him-and-i’m-not-impressed’ lizard blink, which he ignored and left. They’d bundled into the toilet cubicle down the corridor, breathless and giggling. It was the third time they’d had sex, and the first time they’d done it at work and Harry murmured ‘who else have you brought in here then?’ against his mouth while sliding his hand inside Nick’s pants. Nick squawked a gentle protest: at the question, at Harry’s hand, at the fact that he’d thought it’s going to make him lose his stiffy. But it didn’t, it only made him harder. Fuck. Every time he even thought of underestimating Harry Styles, Harry reminded him what a bad idea that was. ‘No-one,’ he panted into Harry’s mouth. ‘Liar,’ Harry said, sliding his hand over Nick’s cock in a steady rhythm. 'Nnng, shut up and make me come, brat.' The handjob had been mutual, and a little overlong. Clare had to cover for him by quickly sticking on something from the C-list, and was not happy. 

So they'd never done it in the studio before - on the actual desk, Jesus. He knew – as soon as Harry started tugging at his hand once everyone else had gone, leaning back against the desk, beckoning him with his body – that something else was going on. 

It wasn't just his last nighttime show. They both knew something else was coming to an end. They’d both be more visible now, that they wouldn’t be able to hide so much anymore. It was as if doing the Breakfast Show was Nick literally coming out into the daylight. No more hiding in the shadows. He knew they’d have to be more careful. That studio shag was their last hurrah, and as if in warning, they’d been spotted. And then Nick was struck by something else: the hilarious irony that they’d been spotted by a fucking _journalist_. He burst out laughing. Sometimes the universe was so fucking obvious. Unsubtle, he told the universe quietly. Very tacky indeed.

‘What’s funny?’ 

‘The universe. The universe is funny, Haz.’

~

‘Ah, life-saver, thank you, Grimmy. I owe yooooou.’

It was a couple of nights later in the pub. Gillian made to take the shawl back but Nick wouldn’t let go of his end. Gillian tugged it again. Nick had a weird look on his face. 

‘How did you know I was there the other night?’ he said in a low voice. 

_Ah. They were doing this now, were they?_ Gillian stopped tugging, and held onto her end. She didn’t say anything, and instead tipped her head to one side and held his gaze. After a second or two, she watched as the penny dropped, or rather, something he already knew was confirmed. One of the advantages of knowing someone for nearly ten years. Sometimes even Nick didn’t need to say a word. He loosened his grip on the shawl. ‘Thought so,’ he murmured.

‘Had to bleach my brain out, mind,’ she said, before he’d released it completely. 

He let out one of those massive rusty laughs as the shawl fell into her lap. ‘Soz, Gels. Maybe I owe _you_.’

‘Let’s call it even.’ He turned to go to the bar, but she caught his wrist. The pub was loud, and none of their friends were paying attention to them. They all saw each other about nine times a week anyway. ‘Be careful, won’t you, Grim.’

His smile softened. ‘I’m always careful, Gels. Don’t worry.’

She smiled back and tried to feel reassured.


End file.
